With stoicism writ on face
I invite the chisels
for giving birth to a dialogue
between me and the shaper.
Where did the things go wrong
in making the life a simple page
to write a beautiful poem?
Buddha give me a bo-tree
or an interlocutor who invents
skin, teeth and eyes
of a failing system.
The command has gone to unknown robots.
They were manipulating the atrophied limbs
of high-tech generation
who do not know
the pathless love
when we walk into the moon.
